


Ten Songs Writing Meme

by leere



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-21 16:36:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7395175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leere/pseuds/leere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten mini fics. Rating ranges from general to explicit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Songs Writing Meme

**Author's Note:**

> Boredom on a road trip lead me to do an ancient writing meme (the rules are copied straight from a LiveJournal post dated March 2006.) Enjoy :)
> 
> 10 Songs Meme:  
> 1.) Pick a character/pairing/fandom.  
> 2.) Put your music on shuffle.  
> 3.) Write a drabble mini fic related to the song. You have from the time the song starts until it ends to write.  
> 4.) Do ten and post!

Earned It by the Weeknd

Rating: Mature (sexual content, frottage)

Pete rolls his hips against Patrick's, tongue sweeping across his lips before pressing in. He's moaning and rutting against him and he feels seventeen again, but Patrick's just as desperate for him, if the way he curls a leg around Pete's waist to get a better angle is anything to go by, so he feels a little better. They're both in jeans, there's thick denim between them, yet Pete can feel how hard Patrick is, can feel their sweaty foreheads press together when Pete breaks the kiss to look down, fumbling with their belts. He's working on unbuckling Patrick's when Patrick, the impatient bastard, reaches into Pete's boxers.

Pete curses, hips jerking into Patrick's clammy grip. "Can't you wait?"

Patrick twists his wrist and bites at Pete's bottom lip. When he lets go, he whispers, "Don't you think we waited long enough?"

Pete shivers and lifts his head for another kiss, fucking up into Patrick's hand.

-

7 Minutes in Heaven by Fall Out Boy

Rating: General

Pete doesn't hear his name the first time it's said, but he does feel it when he's prodded none too gently in the side. He pushes through his hoodie fort until he can see out and glowers at Patrick, who's squatting down beside him, mouth twisted, though his eyes are concerned, shaded under his hat.

"What," Pete says flatly.

"Jeanae again?"

Pete gives up on maintaining eye contact and stares at Patrick's bright green but dirt smudged sneakers. "Why do you always assume it's her?"

"'Cause she's all you care about, and you're, like, curled up in a pile of her hoodies on the floor. I can put two in two together."

"Leave me alone. I'm fine." Pete closes his eyes. He doesn't hear Patrick leave, but he assumes he's gone, until maybe seven minutes later, when he feels his hoodie bed being shifted around. He opens his eyes and Patrick's crawled in with him.

"Shh," Patrick says, and he doesn't go to hold him like Pete tries to pretend he doesn't want him to, doesn't even try to touch him, just lays there. But his warmth, ever present at Pete's side, is enough. "Close your eyes."

Pete does.

-

Bad Influence by P!nk

Rating: Teen (alcohol use, underage alcohol use)

By the time he's thirty, he can admit it; he's kind of a bad influence on the friends of his who are on the young side. He'll realize this while watching a very drunk Spencer Smith and Ryan Ross do body shots off one Brendon Urie, and he'll remember seeing seventeen year old Brendon's eyes light up when Patrick passed him a beer, years ago in their shitty little LA apartment. He'll hear Brendon yelling, "Do it off my ass! Do it off my ass!" and wonder how it's the same kid who'd said, "I - dude, can I seriously drink this?"

Right now, though, he's twenty-two, and Patrick's seventeen, and Pete's handing him a gin and tonic, picking the lime out to suck on. Pete sticks the slice in his mouth and grins at Patrick, green visible in place of his teeth.

"Pete, I don't think-"

"Dude, come on. Don't be a fucking pussy."

"I'm not, I'm not, I just - aren't you edge?"

"Not as of last Tuesday," Pete smirks. He slaps Patrick on the ass, and Patrick jumps and spills half his glass on his shirt. "Drink up, Patty, I wanna see what kinda drunk you are. Never too young to get wasted."

Pete finds Patrick later, and he's a happy drunk, the giggly, flirty kind. He has to drag Patrick off the guy from Misery Signals and leads his stumbling singer to the kitchen, where he sits Patrick down at the dining table. He collapses beside him, feeling a little sick to his stomach after watching Patrick grind on that guy.

"Alcohol," Patrick slurs, staring up at the ceiling fan like it's rhythmic spinning is sorcery to him, "is great."

Pete drops his head to the table and groans.

-

Clocks by Coldplay

Rating: General

"Wanna go home," Patrick mumbles into his pillow. "Miss my mom."

Pete rubs his back and tries to ignore the gross factor of Patrick's sweaty shirt. The kid's running a 100 degree fever, and they're in the middle of fucking Wisconsin, heading to Minnesota for a show. They couldn't afford to stop for medicine because they'd risk losing their gig, so all they could do was put the AC on high in hopes of cooling him off. Pete was freezing, bundled up in one of Andy's hoodies _and_ one of his own, but Patrick was still hot to the touch.

"I'm trying, sorry I'm not as good as her." Patrick opens his mouth to say something, but Pete continues. "That's not self deprecating, I swear. But nobody compares to your mom, man, I get that. I miss mine, too."

Patrick closes his eyes and licks his lips. "You're an okay replacement mom, Wentz."

"Thanks," Pete smiles proudly. 

-

Often by The Weeknd

Rating: Explicit (prostitution + buttfuckin')

Patrick cries out when Pete thrusts into him, fisting his hands in the sheets and arching up. Pete watches him for a minute, the ecstasy on his face. He's tight for a whore. Pete wonders if he's just a good fucking actor or if he's really enjoying this as much as he looks like he is. Pete's not new to fucking hookers, male and female, but usually it's obvious when they're faking their pleasure, to the point that Pete has to tell them to quit it with the moaning because they're making him nauseous.

But Patrick - he's fucking _into_ it. He's full of it, writhing beneath Pete, rocking his hips down, legs spread wide to try to get Pete's cock as deep as possible. He's hard against Pete's stomach, so he really is enjoying this. Pete lets him jerk himself off, and when he does, it's arched up like the letter 'n', trembling everywhere, eyes rolling back in his head as he comes in thick spurts over his own chest.

Good fucking actor, Pete decides.

Afterward, Pete lights himself a cigarette, ignoring the way Patrick's nose scrunches up and he starts coughing.

"You do this a lot?" Patrick asks when he's done, rolling over to look at him, propped up on his elbow. He's pretty, he really is, even red-faced from his coughing fit.

But Pete looks at his body, not his face. He says, "Yeah. Often."

-

Ease by Troye Sivan

Rating: General

Patrick's always been the yin to Pete's yang, always the eye of Pete's storm, the light to his dark, the sane to his crazy. They're similar in a lot of ways, but mostly they're polar opposites; classic foils. But sometimes, when he's alone, Patrick lets himself be the yang, lets himself be the storm and the dark and the crazy. The things he does aren't publicized like the things Pete does are, aren't shown on TRL or in magazines, but it doesn't really matter because it's all in Patrick's head, always has been. He's been told he thinks too much - he's never tried to stop.

He calls Pete once, when it gets bad.

"Yo," Pete says, and Patrick blurts, "Tell me a story."

Pete's silent. "What?"

"Tell me a story. Something happy."

"Shit, Patrick, are you - bad day? Want me to come over?"

"No, no, just - I'm in a weird place, could you just talk to me about happy things?"

And Pete does, talks about yellow daffodils, raindrops on roses, the toothless smiles of children, the feel of getting into a clean bed, and popping bubble wrap - he talks Patrick down, like Patrick's talked him down so many times, and Patrick's asleep before he can thank him.

Pete hangs up when he hears Patrick's gentle snoring and smiles to himself.

-

Video Phone by Beyoncé

Rating: Explicit (sexual content, warning for mentions of Patrick's weight loss)

"You wanna film me?" Patrick smirks, naked body twisting against the silk sheets. Pete's down to fuck Patrick at whatever weight, but he has to appreciate what dropping sixty pounds has done to Patrick's confidence. He's finally realized what Pete's known for nine years; he's fucking hot. He's still not stick thin, but he's skinny enough to feel better about himself, yet he still has enough meat on his bones for Pete to grip his hips and dig his fingers into the flesh.

The weight loss has also done wonders to Patrick's libido; now that he's confident, he's not afraid to sit himself down on Pete's lap and beg for it.

Pete makes a clicking sound like he's taking a picture, even though his phone's on silent. He doesn't keep naughty things on his phone anymore, not after the dick pic incident, and Patrick knows this, but if Pete didn't know any better, he'd think Patrick was slyly suggesting Pete should film him.

"You want me to?" he asks, crawling onto the bed. He uses his free hand to push Patrick's bent legs apart and shimmy between them. The index finger of his other hand hovers above the record button.

Patrick's not in a feisty mood, he just wants dick tonight. He bites his lip and looks down at where Pete's grinding against him, tilting his hips up so Pete's dick slides where Patrick wants it. "Get me the lube, I'll prep myself and let you record it."

Pete reaches into the nightstand and presses the lube into Patrick's hand. "Always knew you were a star, baby."

-

Eyelids by Pvris

Rating: Teen (angst, implied sex)

Sometimes Patrick feels really cold. Not, like, temperature cold; emotionally cold. It's a weird thing, he's never been able to put it in words. Pete's the poet, he's the one with the words. Patrick will never understand how Pete can so effortlessly transform his incoherent feelings into tangible poetry, and he doesn't try to. Patrick's the melodies. He knows his place.

He knows his place is beside Pete, to the left of him, in Pete's queen sized bed in his penthouse apartment in LA. His place is entangled in silken sheets and entangled in Pete, wrapped up in him. That's where he belongs.

Not sitting on the stoop of Pete's building, temperature-cold because it's winter and emotionally-cold because he's got too much on his mind.

Empty, he realizes. Not cold, it's empty. Pete fills him, he supposes. In more ways than one. They balance each other. Vinegar and water, or whatever.

He should be with Pete, he thinks. Warm and loved, not cold and alone. If Pete would just come to his damn senses.

 _It's your fault for falling in love with someone who just wants sex,_ he tells himself. _It's not Pete's fault. You put yourself in this situation._

 _Fuck off,_ he thinks, and he stands and gets in his car and just sits in it for a moment, warming up.

Pete's text comes a couple minutes later. **see u next thurs?**

 **Of course :)** Patrick answers. He leans back and closes his eyes. Then he starts the car and drives away.

-

Never Ending by Rihanna

Rating: General

Do you ever notice how some moments feel infinite? Especially at night, it seems; it's indescribable, but you feel like you're floating, and you feel like that moment, that snapshot of nirvana, is never going to end.

That's how Patrick feels when he's with Pete. He's young, and he's inexperienced - at nineteen, Pete's pretty much his first everything. But he's pretty sure that what he feels when he kisses Pete is something special.

But Pete's got baggage. Most of the time, he's the bouncy, fun guy Patrick fell in love with. But sometimes, when he's got his earbuds in and he's staring out the window, he looks like he's in another world, and like whatever's happening in that world is incomprehensibly tragic. Patrick just wants to hug him tight when that happens, but he knows Pete's enjoying the moment, in a weird, sad way. Sometimes you need alone time, just so you can have a chance to cry without anyone bothering you and asking what's wrong.

Patrick always wonders if the feelings are one-sided. If the infinite feeling he feels when he's with Pete, Pete doesn't feel when he's with Patrick. He worries Pete just feels sad when he's with Patrick. And it's a dumb, childish fear, sure, but he's got reason to worry.

But then Pete will turn away from the window, and he'll pull his earbuds out, and he'll offer Patrick a tiny smile, and he'll boop him on the nose and kiss him on the lips, and then he'll yell, "Oh, shit, this is gonna be a big one!" and he'll jump forward into the passenger seat, and onto Joe, and he'll burp right in his face, and Joe will start hitting Pete, and Andy will start shouting, and will Patrick temporarily forgets all his doubts.

-

The After Life of the Party by FOB

Rating: General

Patrick looks up from the notebook Pete just shoved at him, staring at Pete with concerned blue-green eyes. He hasn't even gotten passed the first page yet. Pete usually doesn't hang around when he hands Patrick his words, but this time he feels anxious. The guy knows him better than anyone, he's trusted him with his darkest thoughts for the past three years, yet this feels different somehow.

Patrick squints at Pete. No matter how questionable the lyrics are, Patrick never asks Pete about them, never even really tries to interpret their meaning. But if they're particularly worrying, he'll check up on Pete - like he's doing now. "You okay, man?"

Pete nods. "Lotta shit in my head, but when's there not?" He waves at the notebook. "Latest ship wreck right there. Salvage what you can."

Patrick cracks a little smile and looks down at the page Pete left it open on. "'Our songs catch the ear of the desperate'? You think fans are gonna be offended by that?"

Pete shakes his head. "Uh uh. I'm connecting with them. I'm as desperate as some of them, and they know it. 's why they like us. Why they like me." He sits heavily at the table, opposite of Patrick, and buries his head in his hands. "I want it to shut off, man. Too loud."

Patrick never says anything in these situations. Pete doesn't blame him. He obviously doesn't know what to say.

This time he does say something, though. Sings, actually. Lowly, tentatively; _"I'm a stitch away from making it, and a scar away from falling apart."_

"You make beautiful art out of my angsty bullshit, and for that I love you, Mr. Stump," Pete mumbles into his arms.

"You give me angsty bullshit to make so-called beautiful art out of, and for that I love _you_ , Mr. Wentz."

Pete lifts his head, and Patrick's smiling at him.

Pete smiles back.


End file.
